


'Sexy Voice', and Other Ill Omens

by newsbypostcard



Series: [tma] Comedy Oneshots [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Humor, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:48:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22823578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard/pseuds/newsbypostcard
Summary: Martin went home with Timone timeand almost said Jon's name and it ruined his life. And if that wasn't enough, now Tim won't leave bloody well enough alone about it.It's almost like Tim wants something from him, or something.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Series: [tma] Comedy Oneshots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774864
Comments: 26
Kudos: 253





	'Sexy Voice', and Other Ill Omens

**Author's Note:**

> That fluff bonus episode got me shipping Martin/Tim something fierce. Jack, if you're reading this... thank you.
> 
> This is set nebulously between Seasons 1 and 2. [Kathy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaeolist) and [Mari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstrung) once again share responsibility, thanks for riffing with me about Tim's enormous [clears throat] sexual confidence.

  


It was a mistake. That’s all there is to it.

It wasn’t even a _bad_ mistake. It was technically a good mistake, the kind Martin might hypothetically make again. He’s not going to, obviously; things are bad enough. Every time Martin walks into a room—

“Hey there,” Tim says deeply, imparting a wink.

—Martin must then immediately leave that room.

Things are… bad. Things are very bad. They could be much worse: it could have been awful. It _was_ awful, in a way, though in other ways it was—well. Tim knew what he was doing. Tim definitely… generally knows what he’s doing—horizontally, and also in other configurations. There’s just something permanently offputting about reaching climax under your incredibly hot colleague while also feeling like you’re being pulled into hell by a ten-ton weight of guilt, and Martin hopes never to repeat the experience. 

Was it good beyond telling to have someone pay attention to him? Yes. Has it otherwise been several years of thinking about dating and then jumping away at the first sign of contact like a hand from a hot stove? Yes. Has he been thinking about getting it on with Tim since the first time Tim brought it up all those months ago, even if he made him repeat the suggestion another six times? Yes. Was it necessary to be drunk when he finally let Tim’s fingers grasp his as he pulled Martin toward his flat? Absolutely, yes.

Did Martin close his eyes and think of—someone else, half the time? 

Yes. 

Frankly, it’s the other half that’s surprising. Tim is just really, really fit.

Most surprisingly, it was good. He doesn’t always get along with Tim, but it was nice to be with someone who already knew him a bit. Tim must have understood something about him to get Martin to let go enough that the wrong name could even have almost got out of his mouth.

And that had been the beginning of the end.

Martin had let Tim kiss him after, but he’d been too quiet to be convincingly _there_. He’d felt empty, in fact, and then ashamed of himself. How broken is he that a man this gorgeous invites Martin into his bed and shows him an extremely good time, and Martin’s response is to disconnect?

So those were his fun weekend thoughts to contend with.

The work week is somehow worse.

Tim had greeted Martin on Monday morning with what Martin’s come to think of as his ‘sexy voice’. He uses his ‘sexy voice’ when he’s trying to be charming, which is most of the time. In Tim’s bed, a string of sweet murmurs had calcified into the ‘sexy voice’ within seconds of Martin pulling away. Tim hasn’t recovered since. 

Martin doesn’t blame him. He’d made such a poor show of himself, making love at a remove. Anyone would be justified in an awkward tone. Martin just wants to put it all behind them. Tim had made clear before they’d begun that this was a one-time thing to cheer Martin up—benevolent of him, his tone suggested, though of course he hadn’t said that out loud.

Surely pretending it never happened is what Tim _wants._

Only Tim doesn’t seem able to leave well enough alone. They get through Monday mostly unscathed; Martin catches Tim looking at him more than half a dozen times, and Martin goes home feeling only vaguely like disembowling himself might be an improvement on his current feeling.

Tuesday is… another matter. 

“You know, Martin,” Tim says provocatively, sauntering from across the room.

“Hullo, Tim,” Martin says, trying not to wither on the spot.

“I couldn’t help but notice you looked a little down.” Tim sets an elbow on Martin’s desk, rests his chin in his palm. “ _How’s_ it going?”

Would knocking Tim unconscious to avoid this conversation constitute an overreaction? “I’m fine, Tim, thanks.”

“Are you sure? You know you can always confide in your old pal Tim.”

Martin besets him with a blank look.

“Nothing on your mind?” Tim teases.

“Nope! Thanks, though, that’s really—kind of you to notice.” Martin forces a smile, in case that makes him go away.

Tim looks—odd. He studies Martin with his usual thoroughness, but there’s something strange in the bend of his mouth. “Alright!” Tim says finally, straightening, hands raised. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“In the office we share, forever,” Martin croaks. “Yes.”

Tim shoots him a pair of fingerguns—but only gets as far as the photocopier before spinning around again. “You know, Martin—I don’t usually do this.”

“Don’t break your streak,” Martin says with faux cheer.

“But I’d be willing to go again, if you still need a bit of cheering up.” Tim winks at him, as though that should seal the decision.

“Oh—nnnno,” Martin says slowly. “No thanks! Once was enough, don’t you think?”

Tim holds his gaze, but all charm has been leached from his face. It’s enough to make Martin grow concerned.

“No!” Tim says airily—and just like that, the mask's been thrown back up. “Right you are. First time’s the charm!”

“I didn’t mean—that’s not what I meant.”

“It’s fine!” Martin’s never heard Tim’s voice hit such high registers before. “Why mess with perfection, am I right?” Tim throws him a final, doomed wink—and then stands there, expectant. 

Martin’s at a loss. 

“Right," he says feebly, shooting a fingergun back.

Tim’s smile fixes dreadfully. Then he turns on his heel and hastens out of the room.

Martin could die right here and that would be fine.

“Martin.”

He jumps, spinning in his seat. “Yes! Jon! Oh my God! Hello! How…” He exhales steadily. “How long were you there?”

“Just seconds. Why?”

“No reason!”

Jon doesn’t seem convinced. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” Actually, Martin’s starting to feel a bit sick. He must have ginger capsules left lying around somewhere.

Jon stares a long while. Then, pointedly, his eyes flit toward the door.

There's only one thing that could mean. Horrified, Martin turns, expecting to see Tim still there.

Tim is not there.

Now Martin just looks the fool. He swivels back to Jon with a nervous laugh. “Er—did you want something?”

“Yes.” Jon checks the label on the folder he’s holding and deposits it into Martin’s waiting arms. “Give this a read for me, see if it records digitally.”

Work. Something to focus on. Normalcy, thank you, at last. “Trying that on again, are you?”

“Figure it can’t hurt.” Jon’s eyes are still fixed on the door. “If it doesn’t take, put it back on my desk. Think I might have time later to—”

“I mean—you’re the boss. But is there any particular reason you…?” Under Jon’s renewed attention, Martin feels himself wilt. “I only mean that I can record it with the analogue recorder for you if—”

“No,” Jon says briskly—“no, no. Just the test will be fine, thank you. If it records, it can be filed with the rest; otherwise, return it to me. Questions?”

“No,” Martin says, glum. He’s performed this task for him many times.

Jon nods, tucking the remaining files under his arm. Martin’s heart skips a beat as he watches Jon go. He’s a man made of right angles, hair yet greyer each day—only arguably handsome in a certain light.

Tim doesn’t have any grey hair. Tim—is a brunet. Tim is built like a god.

“Martin.” 

Martin raises his head to see Jon stopped just beyond the doorframe, one pace into his office. His face is tipped to the sky. Martin can see a pulse in his throat, neck in a taut curve; he wants desperately to bury his face against it, feel the stuff of Jon's life, the warmth of his skin.

“Yes?” says Martin, awed.

Jon doesn’t say anything. Tireless in hope, Martin counts three contractions in his jaw before disappointment strikes.

“Nevermind,” Jon says softly, and closes his office door.

  


  


  


  


“How’s it going, Martin?” asks Tim the next day.

Martin jumps; shoots a glance at Jon’s closed office door. “I’m fine,” he says, quiet, “thanks.”

“Really?” Tim says, not quiet. “Because I can’t help but notice—”

“Haven’t we done this already?”

“—that you still seem a bit… off.”

“I’m not off. I’m right as rain, truly.”

“You sure? You’ve not been put off for _any_ reason, any reason at all?”

“Nope! I am… not sad, anymore, actually, pleased to announce. Thank you Tim, you have fixed it. Now if we could _please_ let it—” 

“Is that what you really want?”

“Yes! You were the one to suggest that we—you know, one and done. Well, that’s one, and now we’re done. Now can we let it _be_ done, or—”

“You’re sure there’s _nothing_ you want to talk about? Nothing I can help you with, no _feedback_ you’d like to impart—”

“No! Look, Tim: It’s not personal. I’m just—I’m ready to not talk about it. Ever again, actually!" Martin laughs desperately.

Tim looks to have come into sudden physical agony. “Right! No, no, right you are. Consider it dropped!”

“Thank you,” Martin breathes. “Now can I please go home, or is there something else you—”

“No, no, no, no, of course! No no no no no. Off you go, Martin, by all means. Don’t let me stand in your way!”

  


  


  


  


“It’s just that you seemed so very sad,” Tim says on Thursday, over Martin’s prolonged groan, “right afterwards. Like, _immediately_ afterwards. I can’t help but think—”

“Tim,” Martin says, “I am begging you, please, to just forget it ever happened.”

Tim’s laugh is so tinny that Martin looks up to check he hasn’t put his head in the sink. “Yes, you’re right! All for the best!”

  


  


  


  


After lunch, Tim’s hands land on either side of Martin’s desk. 

“Let me do it again,” he hisses. “I know I can do better this time, I—”

“What? Tim, you were… How, how could you possibly do better?”

Agony flickers across Tim’s face with such severity that Martin feels ill. “Was it that bad?”

“It wasn’t… a picnic. But that’s not because—”

“Alright!” Tim says loudly, waving a hand. “I don’t want to hear it, I’m better off. Spare me, please!”

  


  


  


  


“Alright,” Tim says Friday, throwing down his pen. He advances on Martin, folding up his sleeves. “We’re doing this.”

Martin stares at him with great alarm. Is Tim… wanting to fuck him in the Archives?

“Sasha,” Tim says evenly, “would you excuse us a second?”

“No,” scoffs Sasha. “Why on Earth would I do that?”

“Yes,” Martin squeaks, “there’s really no need—”

“Sasha, please,” says Tim.

“Stay where you are, please, Sasha,” Martin pleads.

Tim cocks his head at Martin, expression dropped. “I messed up that badly?”

“ _No._ Of course you didn’t.”

“Evidently, I did.”

Sasha’s feet, previously perched on her desk, now hit the floor. “Oh, my God. You two had it off?”

“No,” say Martin and Tim in unison, eyes locked.

“Oh my God,” says Sasha. “And Tim was _bad_?”

Tim closes his eyes. “Sasha...”

“Nevermind,” Sasha says, oddly gleeful. “I’m on my way. Taking a long lunch, though, you clots can cover for me. Martin,” she adds, sing-song, “come out for a drink after work.”

“That’s putting a lot of faith in my survival through the hour,” Martin croaks.

“I believe in you. Tim—try not to be bad at sex while I’m gone.”

“I’m not,” Tim calls as she skirts from the room. “I’m not bad at—” He turns to Martin. “Am I?”

“Tim,” Martin groans, face in hands. “Can it really not wait until we’re out of the office?”

“No, it can’t. It really can’t. I’ve tried to act like nothing’s wrong—”

“Nothing is wrong!”

“I’ve upset you,” Tim says, flat. “Please just tell me what I’ve done wrong.”

“I can’t say it enough times: you didn’t upset me.” 

“I promise never to do it again. I promise. I’ve never had such a bad reaction—”

“ _You_ didn’t do—”

“Did I push too far? I pushed too far. You seemed to be—I mean, you put my hand—”

“Yes,” Martin says fervently; he’d swear he hears Jon shifting in the office behind. “It was very good! I’m the problem here, I—I’d really rather not discuss this in the office—”

“What—you’re worried big boss man might catch wind of our fraternization?”

“Yes! That’s exactly what I’m worried about!”

“He’s not even here. He’s never here, he’s off doing God-knows-what for God-knows-why. It’s just you and me here, Martin, so will you _please_ tell me”—Tim’s voice drops suddenly, his face flashing earnest concern—“did I take advantage of you in a vulnerable state?”

“What?" Martin says. "Noooo no no no no! Tim—no.” He slides an instinctive hand over Tim’s fingers. “Nothing like that at all.”

“Because I thought everything was going well—”

“It was!”

“—until it wasn’t. Which usually means—”

“The problem is me. It’s inside my head. Nothing you did—”

“Was it—” Tim makes a highly specific gesture. “It was, wasn’t it.”

“Tim,” Martin says with weary honesty—“it was the best I’ve ever had.”

Tim straightens so fast Martin hears his spine crack. “Oh?” He suppresses a smirk. “Surely not.”

“Don’t make me regret telling you.”

“You’re not _lying_ , are you?”

Martin gives him a pained look. “You have greatly overestimated my previous sexual partners’ prowess.”

Concern clouds Tim’s brow. “It wasn’t even my best work.”

“No, but you… cared. You…” Martin sighs behind a hand. “That’s rare enough.”

“Oh, dear,” Tim says seriously. “Well, now I really think we should go again.”

“I really—”

“I’ll show you a proper good time, Martin. You’ll forget all about those other chumps. Don’t you believe me?”

“I believe you, Tim. You already have. It just didn’t… stick.”

“Why not?”

“It could have been anything with anyone, any level of sex, and I’d have done the same.” He trails off, gaze drifting away. “Almost… anyone.”

Thank Christ Tim finally picks up the gist. 

“Ohh—I _see_.”

Turns out it’s miles worse to be understood; Martin collapses against the desk. “I _see_ now,” Tim says, laying it on. “My, my. You don’t just _like_ someone…”

“Please—when can we leave this alone?”

Tim punches him in the arm. “Why didn’t you _say_ something!”

“As I have been doing everything in my power _not_ to say anything for the past week, Tim, do you think it could be that I don’t really want to?”

Tim looks faintly circumspect. “And it’s not me you’re in love w—”

“No!” Martin shouts. “It’s not you!” 

With Tim’s hands on his hips, it’s hard for Martin not to notice their size. 

“Let’s go again,” Tim says.

“No!”

“I swear it, I can blow your mind. I can make you forget about this Mister… Missus? Mister and/or Missus Destiny.”

“No, thank you.”

“Sure? Because it only gets better the more I know about—”

“You’re not him!” Martin shouts, sufficiently defeated; and this gets Tim to shut up at last. “You’re not him.”

At last forced to take him seriously, lips pursed, Tim nods. Then he takes Martin’s hand and squeezes it, surprising him. “And you’re alright.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, a bit bewildered. “I’m alright.”

“I didn’t do a bad job.”

“You did... a fantastic job, Tim.”

“Best you ever had?”

Martin’s definitely going to regret copping to that. “Best I ever had.”

“Great,” Tim says with plain relief. “In that case—would you tell Sasha I’m good at sex?”

“Have... you really not come out of this thinking maybe sleeping with your officemates is a bad idea?”

“If I was planning to sleep with her, I wouldn’t need your endorsement, would I? Experience speaks for itself.” Tim offers one of his seemingly compulsive winks. “But you’re right, I don’t, usually. You’re a special case.”

That surprises him. “Am I? You—er—and Monica, in Accounting—”

“But she’s in Accounting.”

“And James, in the gift shop?”

“James is in the gift shop. Archives is a different matter. Same department overlap—bad idea.”

“But… not with me?”

“To be honest with you, Martin, it seemed like you needed it.” Tim doesn’t look at Martin as he says it, his tone a little strange. Instead, Tim organizes the baubles he keeps on his desk. “And, er… well, I wanted to get to know you better.” He shrugs, picks up a random file. “You’re a tough nut to crack.”

“Am I?”

“I’ve been trying to get it out of you who you fancy for months.” He meets Martin’s eye, abrupt. “It’s not Elias, is it?”

Martin answers from behind his hands—“How about you have this conversation as much as you want, and you let me know when it’s over so I know it’s safe to come out.”

“I knew it,” Tim resolves. He whistles a jaunty tune as he files.

Martin allows himself to languish for a few moments in agony, until he hears rustling from the office behind.

He looks at Tim, eyes wide. Tim looks up with surprise. “Oh,” he says idly. “Guess Bossman was here after all.”

“Oh my God,” Martin whispers.

The door to Jon’s office opens in a flurry.

“What are you all still doing here,” Jon asks. Martin risks a stiff turn to see Jon rubbing his eyes, sleep lines over one cheek. “It’s eleven o’clock.”

“Er,” Martin says breathlessly. He can smell Jon’s stale breath from here. “In the morning.”

“What?”

“It’s Friday, boss,” Tim says.

“Surely not.”

“Afraid so.”

Jon looks at his watch, and then to the Archive doors. “Dear God.”

“Are you alright?” asks Martin.

“Yes,” Jon says vaguely. “I think so. Is Sasha—”

“Lunch,” offers Tim.

“Right,” Jon rasps. “Well… it’s getting to be that time. You all ought to follow suit, get… something to eat.”

“It’s not yet noon.”

Jon shrugs. “Take an extra hour. Not like anything’s liable to change around here.”

Martin and Tim exchange a glance, then grab for their jackets. They don’t need telling twice. “Fancy a sit-down somewhere?” asks Tim.

“Indian?”

“God, that sounds lovely. Want to come, Bossman?”

“No, no, you go on.”

“Shall we bring you something back?” Martin asks. “If you’ve been in here since yesterday—”

“No, that’s alright. Just overexerted myself… reading.”

Martin stalls, jacket partway on. Jon’s stood blinking around the room like he’s never seen it before.

“I’ll bring you back a lamb curry,” Martin offers softly.

Jon opens his mouth as though to object, but when Jon meets his eye, his protests die. “That—would be nice,” he says, frowning.

Martin nods; tries a smile. He gets a set jaw for his effort.

“Oh my God,” says Tim loudly.

“Time to go,” Martin responds.

“Oh my God. _Him?_ ”

“Jon is our boss, Tim, yes, well noticed! Jon there’s coffee in the carafe, bye now—Shut up,” he hisses at Tim, directing his perfect body out of Jon’s line of sight.

“Him?” Tim repeats. “You want _him_ more than you want _me_? The one man on Earth who never pays you any mind?”

“Please shut up, _please_ shut up, is there an _off switch_ to you—” 

“I can ignore you, Martin, if that’s what you want.”

“If it means we never talk about this again, yes! Start immediately, would you please!”

Tim clicks his tongue. “Well, if you ever change your mind—”

“You’ll blow my mind, I get it, I promise. Christ, Tim. You’re buying me lunch for all this.”

"Yeah, that's probably fair." Tim is quiet a while; then he bursts out with—“Why are you so obsessed with him?”

“Why are you so obsessed with _me_?” Martin wails.

And that shuts Tim up, once and for all.

  


(Martin does tell Sasha he's a gem in the sack, just to be nice. Tim definitely doesn't spend the next three days flexing at his desk, but if he does, Martin's sure he has no idea why.)

  



End file.
